


speaking as men do

by sharkfish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Race Changes, Always Female Dean, Angst, Bottom Castiel, Charlie Bradbury is a Winchester, F/M, Light BDSM, Spanking, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkfish/pseuds/sharkfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean really liked to make him smile, so they kept fucking, and Castiel kept getting better, and all and all it was pretty awesome. He kissed her so sweetly, and it was maybe the first time her whole life that a man didn’t start to hate her as soon as she got on her knees.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	speaking as men do

Dean and Charlie stare out the passenger window of the Impala at the cluster of officers surrounding the newest of strange murders in Liberty Hill. “It’s going to be T&A all the way,” Dean says, her lips tight. “Another fucking T&A.”

These days, it’s all tits and ass, tits and ass, men everywhere who still think Walt was the hero of Breaking Bad and send unsolicited pictures of their dicks via text message. But there’s a monster on the loose, so the Winchesters are on the case, feminism be damned.

They go into a C-store in hats and sunglasses, Hanes sleeveless tanks, and well-worn Wranglers, and they come out fucking _babes_. Charlie has on those jeans that make her ass look amazing and Dean is wearing a bra that shoves her tits in and up to create something like a heaving bosom. Men imagine jizzing all over her chest, like they think they can handle her; Charlie, they want to put her in pigtails, like she doesn’t still have her gold star and no interest in losing it.

Tits and ass. “Here we go,” Dean says.

 

Months ago, Castiel sat in the backseat of the Impala as they put on their lipstick. “What is the purpose of breasts?”

Dean nearly choked and Charlie cackled with glee. Castiel tilted his head to the side in that maddening way of his, and Dean could feel his eyes on her chest, which was presently the aforementioned heaving bosoms made famous by romance novels. The handprint on her shoulder tickled.

Later, in a cheap motel room with the curtains closed and a window air conditioning unit blasting warm air, Dean and Castiel fucked for the first time. And it was ok. She’d wondered, of course; she’d wondered the first time they met, the moment Castiel’s wings flashed in their own thunderstorm. She’d wondered, but he was technically a virgin, and virgins with dicks weren’t exactly known for their sexual prowess.

But Dean really liked to make him smile, so they kept fucking, and Castiel kept getting better, and all and all it was pretty awesome. He kissed her so sweetly, and it was maybe the first time her whole life that a man didn’t start to hate her as soon as she got on her knees. She started to look forward to the crackling in the air that meant Castiel was coming in for a landing. He could bring his messages of doom and gloom any day as long as she’d have beard burn between her thighs in the morning.

And she kind of stopped sleeping with other people. She used to pick men and women up in every town, collecting lovers like some people collect shot glasses, but now it was just sneaking off to make out with Cas, hoping to find a few minutes to shove their hands down each other’s pants before Castiel is back out doing whatever the fuck he does and Dean and Charlie are back on the road.

 

They swing by and pick up Jess in Austin, then head down to Aransas for a much-needed vacation. And thank god: Jess and Charlie get their own room, so Dean can finally have some time to herself. She decides she won’t put on anything more than a bathing suit all week.

It’s hot in Texas, impossibly fucking hot, but this fancy hotel has central a/c and it feels lovely to just lay in crisp white sheets while the tides go in and out outside the window. Except all she’s really doing is watching porn to distract herself from the fact that Castiel hasn’t shown up even though she has been calling on him for days.

So of course he finally does show up while she’s three fingers deep in herself, the laptop propped awkwardly on a pillow next to her.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas!” Dean yells. She can’t decide if she should pull the sheets over herself or stop the video, so she fumbles for both and accomplishes neither without effort.

Castiel is looking at her, a caracara so studious with his head canted to the side, and Dean turns away from him, grabbing her underwear from the floor and pulling them on so Cas sees minimal ass before she faces him again. “Can I help you?”

“I’ve seen you watch these kind of videos before,” Castiel says.

“Jesus,” she says, aware she’s repeating herself. “You can’t watch me when I don’t know you’re here, Cas. You can’t do that. When I’m…. my private time.”

The room smells like pussy. Dean would give a proud smirk, but Castiel’s gaze is fucking with her, as usual.

“When we have sex, we don’t do those things.” Curious, a little bird with big blue eyes. “Those people were not being nice to each other.”

Dean goans and pokes her foot through some of her clothes on the floor. “What, Cas, you want me to beat the shit out of you?”

“Yes.”

Dean freezes and gapes. “You want me… to slap you and spank you and ride your face? And fuck you? I have a strap on, you know.” Mostly joking; he’s a fucking angel. But she does have a strapon in her toybox.

“I have seen you wear it when you have sex with women. But I’ve never seen you hit anyone.”

“You’ve seen me hit plenty of people. Well, demons. Mostly demons.”

“Not like this.”

Goddamn Castiel, his voice somber and gaze as seeking as always, when Dean wishes her flippancy would change the tension in the air to something else. Maybe they can back out and watch Firefly for the upteenth time instead of having whatever conversation this is.

Dean moves around the bed to face Castiel. “You want to get on your knees and beg?”

Castiel kneels. Instantly. He sits back on the heels of Novak’s practical shoes, but his upper body leans towards her. Dean grabs Castiel’s chin and tilts it up to force his gaze to hers. “Please,” he says.

“Classic,” Dean says. Her first slap is more like a swat to his cheek. His eyes close for just the briefest moment, eyelashes fluttering, before meeting hers again. “That’s the worst begging I’ve ever heard. Please what?”

“Dean,” he says, and that fucking voice gets to her every time. She never really stopped being turned on and now she’s soaking wet again, can smell it, knows Castiel is smelling it, too, his face so close to her groin.

She slaps him, hard enough to crack. The whole right side of his face turns a beautiful shade of rose. He licks his lips.

Dean wrenches Cas’s chin up further, just to watch the taut line of his throat. “There are rules,” she says. “Firstly, if you don’t like something or want to talk about it or whatever, if you need to pause this --” she waved her free hand around, like that’s an explanation “-- this thing, say ‘America.’ If you are freaking out or just need to stop, say ‘Thor.’ Got it?”

“I’m an angel of the Lord, Dean,” Castiel says. “I’m sure I can handle--”

Dean smacks him across the mouth, using an arm that used to pitch 55 miles per hour fastballs and can probably bench, like, a lot, even though she’s been living a life of microwave burritos from 7-11 and beer. Still, she’s got some guns on her, no doubt, and Castiel’s lip starts to bleed. She notices with satisfaction that he leaves it, takes the human pain.

“Second rule: you are not an angel and I am not a hunter, not when we’re doing this. It’s just you and me. Cas and Dean. Third rule: you do not touch me or yourself without permission. You don’t come without permission. Got it?”

He just nods, lovely creature that he is, a smear of red at the corner of his mouth. Dean leans down and kisses him, soft and sweet, hoping that licking a drop of angel blood won’t make her go nuts like when Charlie ran off with Ruby. It might be worth it even if it does.

“Now get up. Take off your clothes. Hands and knees on the bed, sweetheart.”

She wants to pull that one back into her mouth immediately, fucking _sweetheart._ Never in her life has she called someone that without being facetious. She hopes Cas doesn’t notice the way her cheeks flush, but he notices everything, even when it looks like he’s absorbed in stripping off his fifteen thousand layers of clothes, the fuckhead.

While Dean watches Castiel strip, she pulls her hair into a ponytail, then grabs a beer out of the mini-fridge and starts chugging. It’s not her first time at this rodeo, but it’s Cas, not only _a fucking angel_ but _her_ angel, her best friend, the being who changed everything for her. Who made life not just cowering in her father’s shadow, hoping desperately for his approval, but instead something… fuck, almost joyful. She feels joy with Cas. And here she is, repaying him (again) by hitting him in the face.

She goes to where he is on all fours on the bed, touches his shoulder so he looks at her with his endless eyes. “Cas,” she says. “Cas, are you…?

“Please, Dean,” Cas -- just Cas, naked in front of her, and she goes weak knowing this is the truest she’s seen him since before the barn, when he was just screaming light -- says. And then, like it’s nothing, as easy as she said ‘sweetheart’: “I’m yours.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to spank me.”

Dean fucking loves the way Castiel says it without flinching, without clouds covering his eyes or his cheeks coloring. When he wants, he wants purely, without shame. At least when it comes to Dean.

She trails her fingertips from his shoulder down his back. He’s so handsome. She’s not usually into white guys, but she’s self-aware enough to know it probably wouldn’t matter at all what Cas’s vessel looks like, she’d still think Cas was built by God just for her.

But the pale expanse of Novak’s shoulders seem to suit Cas, so maybe she should thank Novak for giving up his life so an angel could get spanked in his meatsuit.

Her hand slides along the line of his flank and pauses, caressing the same spot on the left side of his ass. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby,” she says. _Baby_ is ok.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, and it surprises her, for some reason, the solemn and humble in his tone.

So she smacks his ass, gets a nice crack from the width of her palm against flesh. It’s just as satisfying as it always is to hit someone.

Castiel rocks forward, barely, then steadies himself. She hits him again, same spot. He’s steady on all four limbs, his gorgeous fucking cock hard between his legs, pointing upwards with so much hope. She squints.

“How’s that feel, Cas?”

“Maintaining status in Buffy territory.”

This is one of those things that Castiel says every now and then, out of nowhere, that makes her heart lock up for a terrifying moment until she thinks she’s about to bow out early from a coronary and save Heaven and Hell the hassle. This is a guy who doesn’t grok enough about human culture to stay outside her space bubble, but he’s the first person to get her safeword superhero joke?

Goddammit.

Dean stands directly behind Cas and loves the almost-delicate arch of his feet.

Smack, smack, smack. Smack smack. Varying arms, varying aim, varying pink spots on Cas’s ass that quickly start to turn red.

She lands a particularly good one, smiles smugly, and then he -- whimpers. “Cas?” she says, pressing her hand against a handprint on his ass, the same way he presses his hand on the more-permanent handprint on her shoulder.

“Buffy,” he says, breathless, clenching his hands in the white sheets.

“Would you like me to continue using my hands or get a belt?”

Another noise, rather undignified for an angel, and not even her fantastic blowjobs made him lose that much control. “Belt,” he says.

“That’s my good angel,” she says, leaning down to place several open-mouthed kisses against the reddest handprint. It doesn’t matter that she can’t see his face -- she can practically _feel_ the smile, the blush.

As Dean digs through her duffle and then pulls her belt off the last jeans she wore, she’s stunned with a realization: Cas is looking for her approval.

“Do ya stay out of my mind these days, Cas?” she asks, folding her belt, leaving just a short doubled-over strip of leather out of the end of her fist.

When she looks, his whole body is rigid, he’s looking at her over his shoulder with those goddamn eyes, but he’s a good boy and doesn’t move. “Yes. I understand your need for privacy and respect your wishes.”

“So you don’t check in every now and then, just to see what I’m thinkin’ about?” She brings the belt down, easy, across both ass cheeks. His head drops back between his shoulders.

The crack of makeshift paddle on skin is far more satisfying than her hand (and fuck if her palm wasn’t going numb). She makes quickly-fading stripes on the meat of his ass and down the back of his thighs, and she’s rewarded with Castiel, Seraph, Agent of Heaven and God Himself, Destroyer of Winchester Lives, _yelping_.

Dean pauses, and Castiel whispers, “Never, Dean.”

She snaps the leather against itself. He whimpers and his weight shifts backwards, ass up, begging. She can’t say no to that. She can’t say no to _him_.

She spends long minutes on each perfect round ass cheek, watching the red turn into a mottled rash, until he starts to fall forward onto his elbows. She drops the belt on the floor and spreads her hands over his lower back, over his ass, down his thighs, soothing with calloused fingers, leaning a knee on the bed to press her mouth to the parts of him she’s marked, nuzzle against harsh red lines that will be monumental bruises in the morning.

“Do you wonder if I’m thinking about you?” Muffled into his skin, because maybe this is one she doesn’t actually want to know. Still, she squeezes his ass with both hands, spreads his cheeks apart to kiss and lick the inside of his thighs, to ghost her tongue over his ass, a tease and not a commitment.

Cas says, “Oh!” and pushes backwards again.

“Greedy,” Dean chides. “Answer the question.”

“I’m aware that you don’t,” Cas says.

Her heart does that thing again, the stopping thing, the numb-tingle-electric-terrified feeling spreading down into her hands. She should win an Oscar or something for how steady her voice is when she says, “Cas, baby, lay down. Get in the covers. I’ll get you some water.”

In the bathroom, sink on, cup overflowing, she stares at herself in the mirror. She’s flushed and panting, hair a goddamn mess (though mostly still in a ponytail), eyes bright like madness, scar on her shoulder raised and swollen against brown skin, nipples visible through a white tank, dyke underwear. And she just belted her angel worse than Johnny W ever did her.

Bewildered, she mouths to herself, _Get it together, asshole._

In the bedroom, Cas props himself up gingerly to sip at the water. He shouldn’t need it, but he’s been playing human so much lately, sitting in dingy diners with Charlie and Dean, devouring cheeseburgers, rating pie from zero to María Casillas-Winchester, Dean never asking if Cas had been watching long enough to know her. Dean’s mother, whom Dean hardly knew. Dean’s memories of the best pie in the world are probably fabricated.

Dean takes the glass from Cas and chugs the rest herself. She puts the glass down harder than necessary, then climbs in the bed, on her back next to Cas. When she raises her arm, he slips in without a word, tucking himself along the softened outline of her, six feet of angel molded against six feet of girl. His face is in her neck, her arm wrapped underneath him and pressed against his spine. Her other hand comes up and traces along the edges of his face.

Outside the window, sluggish compared to the noise of her heart, the waves go in and out. Whoosh, whoosh. Bu-bump, bu-bump. Quietly, she says, “I think about you all the time.”

She feels Cas’s breath hitch. “Dean,” he says. It’s like a question he doesn’t know the words to.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says. She touches his mouth, tilts his chin and shifts to kiss him. Tenderly. His eyes are something out of a fairy tale, _lapis lazuli._

“Thank you for --” he looks down, blushing. Dean has never seen him embarrassed before, not like this, fucking _bashful._ “-- the spanking. Thank you.”

Dean grins. “I didn’t even let you come.”

Castiel’s hand starts to go to her underwear at that, but she diverts it, clasping his fingers between hers. “Not this time, Cas,” she says.

Her angel squeezes her hand and nestles back into her, his warmth soaking all into her skin and the covers, and then the heavy fold of something so big and unimaginable, she can’t even see it. She hears, feels, even though she can’t see, as feathers rustle against the sheets.

And against her neck, Dean’s angel lets out a tiny snore.

**Author's Note:**

> [really elegant sharkfish ](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
